The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Page B
Authors: Jules Watson
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he did not have a moment to lose.
The night was long, as all nights were when Rhiann had this particular fight to win. The fire, banked higher than usual, threw ghoulish, leaping shadows on to the walls. But she was lost in her own world, and did notnotice Brica replenishing the water, or bringing her more moss pads, or clearing bloody bandages.
This role Rhiann fulfilled gladly. To her healer’s soul, all patients were equally in need of care, even this … this invader, this man. She had only to use her knowledge. She did not need to deal with her heart at all. It was simple. And she did it well, for this skill had been left to her. She still had this.
She murmured the required prayers over steeping golden-rod and yarrow, and sang as she ground ivy in her mortar-bowl. The man, now drenched in sweat, tossed and cried in delirium, giving long, tortured speeches about betrayals, and battles, and Erin. She listened closely, intrigued, but could make no sense of it. Did his wandering mind speak of myths long gone, or his own past?
When the wound was cleaned and packed, she dribbled sorrel in sour milk between his lips, seeking to bring down the fever. She knew that although the poison was bad, this burning was the hungry consumer of men’s souls. She had seen it happen many a time, even from slight wounds.
At least this man was strong. His arms were thick, his chest wide, his midriff lean and packed with muscle. And unlike the men of her own tribe, this man’s skin was smooth and hairless. For some reason this brought her a flash of memory, a memory that had not passed the borders of her mind for many moons.
Few men had she seen like this, and only one had she touched when not a healer, many years ago, back on the Sacred Isle. She felt her face flush. And why did that thought arise now, of all times?
She dragged her gaze to her patient’s face instead, pushing the memories away. He was younger than she had first thought him, with only a faint stubble of beard on his chin. In fact, now that he was in repose, he looked little more than a harmless boy, with a soft mouth that could even be called innocent, if she ever thought of men that way.
Then her eyes fell on the white seams of scars on those great arms, and the curving score on his cheek, and she shivered. He was no innocent boy, this one – no poet, no artist, like the man in her memory from the Sacred Isle. This man was a killer.
Just like his prince.
Chapter 11
E remon hardly left Conaire’s side for days. The only other place he frequented was the small shrine on the crag’s crest, where he exchanged some fine finger-rings for the daily sacrifice of a ram.
It was there that Gelert sought him out in the freezing dawn.
Eremon was on one knee before the wooden image of Cernunnos, his sword across his lap. Clouds crowded in over the lip of the open roof, swelling with rain. He looked up at Gelert’s step and started, before getting to his feet. ‘You do not worship Hawen, our Boar God,’ Eremon said, gesturing to the idol, half-embarrassed. ‘But your druids told me that this is the Lord of the Hunt, and we revere him, too.’
‘Come.’ Gelert threw the tattered edge of his sheepskin cloak over his shoulder. ‘I wish to talk privately, and the view is fine from here.’
The old man led Eremon through an archway opposite the main entrance, and out on to a rock ledge that faced west, towards the sea. They edged past a rough-hewn stone altar, smaller than the one inside the shrine, stained dark with blood that was a black crust in the dank sunrise. There, against the shrine’s outer wall was an oak bench, and Gelert sat himself down and gestured for Eremon to do the same.
The marsh was still floating in mist, and from the exposed mudflats at the river mouth came the lament of a redshank, and a wavering line of geese that rose and flowed southwards. Gelert sat straight and still, so still that the only movement was his breath stirring the wisps of
The night was long, as all nights were when Rhiann had this particular fight to win. The fire, banked higher than usual, threw ghoulish, leaping shadows on to the walls. But she was lost in her own world, and did notnotice Brica replenishing the water, or bringing her more moss pads, or clearing bloody bandages.
This role Rhiann fulfilled gladly. To her healer’s soul, all patients were equally in need of care, even this … this invader, this man. She had only to use her knowledge. She did not need to deal with her heart at all. It was simple. And she did it well, for this skill had been left to her. She still had this.
She murmured the required prayers over steeping golden-rod and yarrow, and sang as she ground ivy in her mortar-bowl. The man, now drenched in sweat, tossed and cried in delirium, giving long, tortured speeches about betrayals, and battles, and Erin. She listened closely, intrigued, but could make no sense of it. Did his wandering mind speak of myths long gone, or his own past?
When the wound was cleaned and packed, she dribbled sorrel in sour milk between his lips, seeking to bring down the fever. She knew that although the poison was bad, this burning was the hungry consumer of men’s souls. She had seen it happen many a time, even from slight wounds.
At least this man was strong. His arms were thick, his chest wide, his midriff lean and packed with muscle. And unlike the men of her own tribe, this man’s skin was smooth and hairless. For some reason this brought her a flash of memory, a memory that had not passed the borders of her mind for many moons.
Few men had she seen like this, and only one had she touched when not a healer, many years ago, back on the Sacred Isle. She felt her face flush. And why did that thought arise now, of all times?
She dragged her gaze to her patient’s face instead, pushing the memories away. He was younger than she had first thought him, with only a faint stubble of beard on his chin. In fact, now that he was in repose, he looked little more than a harmless boy, with a soft mouth that could even be called innocent, if she ever thought of men that way.
Then her eyes fell on the white seams of scars on those great arms, and the curving score on his cheek, and she shivered. He was no innocent boy, this one – no poet, no artist, like the man in her memory from the Sacred Isle. This man was a killer.
Just like his prince.
Chapter 11
E remon hardly left Conaire’s side for days. The only other place he frequented was the small shrine on the crag’s crest, where he exchanged some fine finger-rings for the daily sacrifice of a ram.
It was there that Gelert sought him out in the freezing dawn.
Eremon was on one knee before the wooden image of Cernunnos, his sword across his lap. Clouds crowded in over the lip of the open roof, swelling with rain. He looked up at Gelert’s step and started, before getting to his feet. ‘You do not worship Hawen, our Boar God,’ Eremon said, gesturing to the idol, half-embarrassed. ‘But your druids told me that this is the Lord of the Hunt, and we revere him, too.’
‘Come.’ Gelert threw the tattered edge of his sheepskin cloak over his shoulder. ‘I wish to talk privately, and the view is fine from here.’
The old man led Eremon through an archway opposite the main entrance, and out on to a rock ledge that faced west, towards the sea. They edged past a rough-hewn stone altar, smaller than the one inside the shrine, stained dark with blood that was a black crust in the dank sunrise. There, against the shrine’s outer wall was an oak bench, and Gelert sat himself down and gestured for Eremon to do the same.
The marsh was still floating in mist, and from the exposed mudflats at the river mouth came the lament of a redshank, and a wavering line of geese that rose and flowed southwards. Gelert sat straight and still, so still that the only movement was his breath stirring the wisps of
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